


Touch

by TheSwordAndTheQuill



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSwordAndTheQuill/pseuds/TheSwordAndTheQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her hands...he loves them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

Her hands are springtime. Cool and refreshing as the mountain streams he remembers from his youth. Her fingers find the heat in his temples, the ache in his back, soothing and calming and calling him back home. She traces lines across his body, following his history of violence, bringing tender new new life in her wake. 

Her hands are summer. Warmth and desire pour from her skin, her touch determined and sure. He gives in, the fire within her setting his own soul ablaze. Her fingers on his hips, her palms creating delicious friction as they slide across his chest. She is sweat slicked and wanting, he falls into her heat, loosing himself in her golden green light.

Her hands are autumn. Solid and sound, they work tirelessly, long into the night. There are calloused from the pens, never free of ink stains, despite her attempts to keep them so, and there is a shiny circle on her thumb where a hot drop of sealing wax made its escape. These are hands that have shaped nations, and when he draws them too his lips to kiss, he marvels at their strength.

Her hands are winter. Hard and cold, clenched so tightly the fingers are bloodless. They are her one tell, exposing the anger that runs deep and frozen through her core. It is difficult to wake, that anger, harder still to illuminate, but once aroused it freezes solid, denying entry to all. It is most often turned inward, the subject of it’s own despair and he has bloodied his knuckles on it more than once. It is then that he is most grateful for the heat she she given him, for the strength and perseverance she has poured through her fingers into his. He is thankful that her frozen hands fit so neatly into his and when her fingers unclench to twine, hesitantly, into his own he can feel the dawn begin again.

Her hands are springtime, and they are renewed.


End file.
